Morning came without clarity. Damp cold lay between the trees, and the ground was soft with dew in places. No one had truly slept. The watches had been changed, water had been rationed sparingly, and the few words that were spoken stayed close to necessity. Nela’s body still lay on the stretcher, covered with a dark cloth. Maela had insisted that the stretcher not be placed at the edge, but where it had to be seen. Alina was grateful to her for that, even if she did not say it. She knelt over the map spread out on the ground. The cloth had grown dirty along the edges, and moisture had blurred the sharpness of the lines. During the night, Mara had added more markings, Jonna had placed small stones where she suspected guards, and Taren had used a piece of wood to mark possible wagon routes. Everything was imprecise. Everything was better than moving blindly. “We do not all go forward,” Mara said. Alina nodded. “Only the fast group as far as the hill. The rest remain back until we are certain.” “We will not be certain,” Jonna said. “Then until we know enough.” That was the difference they could afford. Rena stood a little apart with Elda and Irma. She was pale, but she worked. She had checked water skins, sorted bandages, and helped Maela secure Nela’s stretcher again. Since the second ambush, she had no longer tried to push toward the front. Alina did not know whether that was guilt or maturity. Perhaps it was both. She turned to the ten, though there were no longer ten. The thought cut more deeply than she had expected. “We go to the hill,” she said. “No movement into the camp before we know how many guards there are and where the prisoners are held. Jonna and Mara check the edges. Lio and Sanna listen for voices and routes. Berit, you look at gates, locks, and pens as much as distance allows. Taren remains with the return line and keeps the wagons ready. Maela, Elda, and Irma stay with the supply group until we know whether wounded men must be moved immediately.” Berit looked toward the stretcher where Nela lay. “And who secures the ropes?” Alina kept her eyes on the map. “You and I.” Berit did not answer. That was agreement enough. They set out while the light still lay low between the trees. Mara went ahead, Jonna slightly offset behind her. Alina followed with Sanna and Lio. Berit moved behind them, heavier, but not careless. The ground rose slowly. Roots pushed out of the earth, thorns caught at cloth, and more than once they had to stop until Jonna gave a small hand signal that the way was clear. The hill was lower than Alina had expected. From below, it had seemed more significant. From above, it was enough. The camp lay in a hollow. It was no great army camp with ordered rows and solid walls. It consisted of hastily raised palisades, several wagons, two larger tents, fire pits, and an area of wooden pens built against the rock wall. That had to be where the prisoners were. The ground was trampled. Smoke hung low over the fire pits. Men moved between the tents and the pens, some armed, others carrying buckets or ropes. The guards were not evenly placed. Two at the northern entrance, one near the wagons, two at the pens. More had to be inside the tents. Alina counted. Then she counted again. “At least twelve visible,” Mara whispered. “More in the tent,” Jonna added. Lio pointed with his chin toward the southern edge. “There is a narrow exit there. Not a gate, more a gap between palisade and rock.” Berit followed his gaze. “Too narrow for many. Good for individuals.” Sanna narrowed her eyes. “They do not speak like regular soldiers.” Alina looked at her. “Too few commands,” Sanna said softly. “Too many individual voices. It feels mixed.” “Mercenaries?” Berit asked. “Probably.” Alina looked toward the pens. Something moved there. A man was led out of one of the wooden enclosures. He walked bent, but on his own feet. His hands were bound. A guard shoved him forward. The man turned his head briefly, and Alina held her breath. Not Arvid. Not Matthis. Still someone from Ardenthal. She did not recognize him, but the cut of his cloak and the cloth at his belt were familiar. The guard brought him to a water barrel. He was allowed to drink, then pushed back again. “They are not keeping them in chain lines,” Mara said. “Not yet,” Berit replied. “These pens were built quickly. If they meant to keep them longer, it would look different.” Alina took that in. It could mean they were soon to be moved. “We do not have much time,” she said. No one contradicted her. They withdrew from the hill slowly and in the same order in which they had come. Only when they were out of sight again did the real conversation begin. Taren listened without interrupting. Maela stood with her arms crossed beside the wagons. Irma and Elda had already prepared bandages, as if they had read enough from Alina’s face. Rena held a water skin in both hands. Alina knelt at the map and traced the camp’s layout with a piece of charcoal. “We do not attack the camp,” she said. “We open it.” Berit nodded at once. “That is better.” “Mara and Jonna take the northern edge and bind the guards there. Not for long. Only enough that they do not run to the pens.” “Bind means?” Mara asked. “Distract, wound, kill if there is no other way.” Mara accepted that without visible reaction. “Lio and Sanna come with me to the southern gap. Berit comes too. We open whatever has to be opened. Elda and Irma remain just behind with Maela. As soon as the first prisoners come out, you decide who can walk and who must be carried. Taren brings the wagons closer as soon as he sees the signal.” “What signal?” Taren asked. Jonna took an arrow from her quiver. “Burning cloth on an arrow. Into the ground before the southern path, not into the air.” “Good,” Taren said. Alina looked to Rena. “You stay with Elda.” Rena nodded without objecting. That was perhaps the clearest proof that she had learned. “And the main group?” Maela asked. “They come only once the first prisoners are out. Before that, there are too many bodies too early in the wrong place.” Maela accepted that. The plan was not beautiful. It was not complete. It had gaps they could not close. But it had directions, tasks, and return routes. There was nothing more. They waited until late afternoon. Not until night. Night would have given them cover, but it would also have taken movement from the prisoners. The wounded stumble in darkness. Panic grows larger in darkness. Late light was a compromise, and every compromise had a price. Shortly before they set out, Alina went to Nela’s stretcher. She did not lift the cloth. She only touched the edge of the rope that held the stretcher together. Nela had tied it before she died. The knot held. “We bring her back,” Berit said behind her. Alina turned. “Yes.” Berit looked toward the camp, which they could not see from here. “And the others.” Alina nodded. Then they went. The first part went better than Alina had dared to hope. Mara and Jonna reached the northern edge without being discovered. A stone rolled deliberately down the slope, not loudly, but noticeably enough that one of the guards lifted his head. Then there was rustling farther north. Two men left their post. Jonna struck one of them in the leg. The other shouted, and with that the camp began to turn in the wrong direction. Alina moved with Lio, Sanna, and Berit toward the southern gap. The path was narrower than expected. Thorns tore at her sleeve. Once Berit’s tool pouch caught, and Sanna freed it with such a calm hand that Berit would probably later claim she had done it herself. They reached the palisade at a place where the rock cast a shadow over the ground. There was space between two wooden posts. Not much. Enough for one person, if they were not too broad and carried little. Berit examined the connection. “Not built to last,” she murmured. “How long do you need?” “Too long if you keep asking.” Alina closed her mouth. Behind the palisade, they heard voices. One cursed. Another called for water. Then something struck against wood. Lio moved closer to the gap. “Someone is there.” Alina stepped beside him. “Who?” “Prisoners. Two, maybe three. Directly behind the pen.” Berit worked faster. The wood gave softly. Not enough. Then a call came from the northern edge. A guard appeared between two wagons, too close to their position. He did not see them at once. Sanna noticed him first and grabbed Alina’s arm. Alina turned. The man reached for his blade. Lio stepped forward and spoke. Not loudly. Not in panic. “Water line,” he said in a dialect Alina did not know. “The captain sent us.” The guard hesitated. Only briefly. Sanna added a word that sounded like a curse and pointed at the ground. The man looked down. In that moment, Alina drew her knife. Berit was faster. She did not strike his head, but rammed the grip of a tool against his forearm. The blade fell. Lio threw himself against him. Alina helped bring him to the ground. Sanna pressed a cloth into his mouth before he could shout. They bound him with Nela’s rope. No one spoke of it. Berit worked on. The wood gave way. The gap opened. Alina slipped through. The smell hit her first. Sweat, waste, old wounds, damp wood. The pen was lower than she had expected. Men sat or lay on the ground. Some lifted their heads, others barely reacted. For a moment, no one saw her as rescue. She was only another movement in a place where movement rarely meant anything good. “Ardenthal,” Alina said softly. “Whoever is from Ardenthal comes here.” A man blinked. Then she recognized him. Matthis. He did not sit at the front, but against the side wall. His face was narrower, his hair clotted, a dark bruise at his temple. But his eyes were awake. He did not say her name. That saved them both. “Whoever can walk helps those who cannot,” she said. “No crowding. No shouting.” Matthis rose to his feet. For a moment he swayed. Then he reached for the man beside him and pulled him up. “The king,” Alina said. Matthis glanced toward the rear partition. “There.” Her heart struck hard, but she did not go at once. First, people had to get through the gap. Berit helped from outside, Lio pulled, Sanna counted, Elda received the first men. Maela lifted a man who could barely stand and carried him away without a word. Then Alina went to the back. Arvid did not lie on the floor. He sat leaning against the wall, his hands bound, a bandage around his torso. His face was gray with exhaustion, but his eyes opened when she came closer. “Alina,” he said. This time it was no title. She knelt beside him. “We are getting you out.” He looked at her, and despite everything there was in his gaze a remnant of the man who had explained borders to her in the map room. “Who is we?” “Ardenthal.” A faint, barely visible smile entered his face. “Of course.” She cut through his bonds. “Can you walk?” “With help.” That was honest. Good. Matthis had appeared behind her. “I will help.” Alina looked at him only briefly. Too briefly for everything that stood between them. Long enough to know he was alive. “Then help.” Outside, the plan tilted. A horn was blown. Not by them. Someone had noticed the escape. Shouts ran through the camp. Mara and Jonna withdrew, but not quickly enough to bind all the guards. Two men came toward the southern side. Taren brought the wagons closer than planned because he had heard the horn as well and did not wait for the signal. That disobedience probably saved lives. Alina led Arvid through the gap with Matthis. The way was too narrow. Arvid clenched his teeth as his bandage scraped against the wood. Outside, Elda assessed him at once. “Onto the second wagon,” she said. “I can still stand,” Arvid muttered. Irma stepped up to him. “That is lovely for you. Sit anyway.” Arvid looked at her, and for a brief moment Alina almost laughed. It stuck in her throat. Then came the second loss. Maela had remained by the pens to pull out a man whose leg was trapped under a beam. Berit tried to loosen the wood, but the shouts came closer. A guard rushed in from the side, blade raised. Rena saw him first and screamed. Maela did not let go of the prisoner. Jonna shot, but the man was too close. Maela turned, did not take the strike fully, but enough. The blade caught her side, deep beneath the ribs. Berit struck the attacker down. Rena ran to Maela despite everything she had learned. This time it was right, because Maela fell and would otherwise have collapsed onto the prisoner. Alina reached her seconds later. Maela lay on her side, her hand still on the arm of the man she had meant to save. “Is he free?” she asked. Berit had loosened the beam. The prisoner was pulled out. “Yes,” Alina said. “He is free.” Maela breathed heavily. “Then carry him.” Rena knelt beside her, hands full of blood, and looked at Alina. Irma came as well, pressed down on the wound, and said nothing. The silence was enough. Alina knew they could not stay. She knew it with a clarity she hated. “We take her with us,” she said. Irma looked at her. “She will not survive the road.” “Then she does not die here.” Maela heard it. Her eyes moved to Alina. “Do not become stupid,” she said, softly but clearly. Alina bent closer. “You come with us.” Maela closed her eyes briefly. “You do not carry heavy people when the road burns.” Berit turned her head away. Rena did not weep. Not yet. She only pressed her hands to Maela’s side as if force could replace what was missing. Maela looked at her. “This time you were right.” Rena almost broke under it, but stayed. Alina made the decision, and she felt something inside her give way. “Berit,” she said. “Help the prisoner onto the wagon. Rena, back with Irma. Elda, secure Arvid. Jonna, cover the retreat. Mara, everyone to the southern line.” “And Maela?” Rena asked. Alina looked at Maela. Maela gave her the answer with her eyes. Alina knelt briefly beside her and laid her hand on Maela’s shoulder. “You are not alone.” “No,” Maela said. That was all that remained. They went. Not all at once, not in order, but quickly enough. Taren guided the first wagon through the narrow track they had not planned as a wagon road before. Wood scraped along the sides. Nela would have known which knot would have held better. The thought came and had to be pushed away. Prisoners stumbled, were pulled, supported, carried. Matthis helped an older man who barely breathed. Arvid sat on the second wagon, pale but awake. He gave no commands. That was perhaps the clearest sign of his exhaustion. At the edge of the camp, one of the small tents was now burning. No one knew who had set the fire. Perhaps one of the prisoners, perhaps Berit, perhaps an overturned pot. It did not matter. Smoke drew across the road and made sight more difficult. For once, that helped. They reached the first return line. There, the women of the main group waited. For one moment, the thing Alina had feared most threatened to happen. Too many people, too many questions, too many hands wanting to help. Then Irma shouted so loudly that even Taren flinched. “Anyone not assigned stands out of the way.” It worked. Not perfectly, but enough. Elda put Arvid’s bandage in order. Rena helped a man with a broken arm. Berit came last out of the smoke line, with a gash on her forehead and a look that told everyone not to ask her about Maela. Jonna emerged from the trees, then Mara. Both lived. Maela did not. Alina did not ask. She saw it in Berit’s face. The retreat began immediately. Not as flight without direction. Taren took up the wagon order they had prepared. Nela’s ropes held the stretchers. Maela’s place remained empty and yet was felt everywhere. The main group closed around the wounded while Mara and Jonna checked the edges. Lio spoke with the freed men, gathered names, tried to learn who was missing. Sanna listened and interrupted only when someone in panic gave false directions. At some point, Matthis came beside Alina. Not too close. “You are bleeding,” he said. She looked at her arm. The bandage had come loose, the wound had opened again. “Not badly.” “That is what everyone says when they do not want to look.” She almost answered as she might have before. Something small, dry, careless. She did not. “You are alive,” she said instead. He looked ahead. “Yes.” They could say no more. Not here. Not with Arvid on the wagon, prisoners all around them, the dead behind them, and a road before them that was not yet safe. But it was enough for that moment. Late in the evening, they reached the sheltered place from the day before. No one wanted to remain there, but they had to. The wounded needed water. The horses needed rest. People who had just been freed from a camp could not run forever only because fear pushed them. Alina went from wagon to wagon. She saw faces she knew and faces she did not. She saw men from Ardenthal, men from allied lands, two very young lads who probably should never have fought at all. She saw Arvid, who stayed awake although Irma ordered him to sleep. She saw Matthis distributing water instead of sitting down. Then she found Berit. The smith sat apart, her hands on her knees. There was blood beneath her fingernails, not only her own. Alina sat beside her. “She wanted us to go,” Berit said. Alina nodded. “That does not make it better.” “No.” Berit looked at her. “Good. I did not want you to make it better.” Alina remained beside her. After a while, Berit said, “Nela and Maela.” “Yes.” “Two of ours.” Alina looked into the darkness. “Not only ours.” Berit was silent. “More died today,” Alina continued. “There in the camp. On the road. Before. If I carry only our names, I make the others smaller.” Berit nodded slowly. “Then carry all of them.” “I am trying.” “That will become too heavy.” Alina did not answer. Because Berit was right. Later, she went to Arvid. He was sitting upright, though he should not have been. His face was pale, but his eyes were clearer than they had been in the afternoon. “You led them,” he said. Alina stopped before the wagon. “I brought them here.” “That is not always the same thing. Today it was.” She looked at him. For a moment he was not only king and not only father. He was a man who understood what she had done and what it had cost. “We are not back yet,” she said. Arvid nodded. “Then bring us back.” It was not an order. It was trust. Alina lowered her gaze briefly, not from submission, but because she could not take that sentence lightly. Then she went on. That night, again, she barely slept. The camp was behind them, but not over. It hung in their clothes, in the bandages, in the eyes of the freed. Nela lay on the stretcher. Maela was not with them, and precisely because of that she was everywhere. Alina stood at the edge of the makeshift camp and looked west. There lay Ardenthal. They had found the king. They had found Matthis. They had brought many out, not all. They had lost what they would never have chosen to lose. The way back would not be homecoming. Not yet. It was the last part of the rescue. And perhaps the hardest. The return began before sunrise. No one spoke of homecoming. Not yet. The word was too soft for what lay ahead. Homecoming sounded like open doors, warm light, arms waiting. The road on which they now moved consisted of wagons, wounded men, tired horses, badly bound wounds, and people who had carried more fear for days than their bodies could hold. Alina walked beside the second wagon. Arvid sat there, his back supported by rolled blankets. During the night, Irma had checked his bandage again and forbidden him, with a directness no one at court would have dared, to speak unnecessarily. He did not entirely obey, but he tried. That alone showed how exhausted he was. Matthis walked on the other side of the column. Not beside her. Not visibly near her. He helped an older prisoner who had to stop every third step because his breath could not keep pace with his will. Once, their eyes met over the wagons. Only briefly. Then both looked forward again. It was enough to know that the other was still there. The first hour moved slowly, but in order. Mara and Jonna checked the road ahead. Taren led the wagons with greater distance between them because the ground grew soft in places, and he wanted to prevent one stuck wheel from halting the entire column. Berit walked with the tools and spoke little. Sanna gathered names. Not loudly, not officially, but by moving from wagon to wagon and asking who was missing, who had been found, who had no longer been able to walk. Lio helped her because some men answered him more readily than a lady of the court. Rena remained with the wounded. She had barely slept in the night. Alina saw it in her movements. She was slower than usual, but not uncertain. When a man reached for water and dropped the skin, she picked it up, held it to his lips, and waited until he turned his head away on his own. No urging. No trembling. The anger that had almost led her to her death only a few days earlier had not vanished. It had been given a task. Around midday, they stopped at a low stretch of woodland. Not long. Long rests make people heavy. Whoever sits too deeply rises with more difficulty. Irma knew that, and Maela would have known it. Alina thought the name without speaking it aloud. Nela’s stretcher was set down in the shade. The rope still held. Berit had checked it twice during the night and each time pretended she only needed to see whether the knot had loosened during the movement. No one told her they understood. Maela was not with them. That remained a hole no one could carry. Alina went to Sanna, who sat on a flat stone and wrote names on a piece of parchment. Her script had grown smaller so everything would fit on the page. “How many?” Alina asked. Sanna did not look up at once. “Freed from Ardenthal, thirty-one. Wounded who must be carried or driven, eleven. Two men from Ardenthal still missing, likely dead, but not confirmed. From allied ranks, we brought seventeen. Some do not know where they belong, or they are not saying yet.” “And dead?” Sanna held the quill still for a moment. “Our known dead since the departure: Nela and Maela. In the camp, at least six we saw. On the road, two prisoners who did not survive the retreat. The others, we do not know.” Alina nodded. The numbers were smaller than the feeling and larger than any comfort. “Keep writing them down,” she said. “All of them?” “All, as far as we know them.” Sanna looked up now. “Even those who are not from Ardenthal?” “Especially those.” Sanna nodded, and Alina went on. Late in the afternoon, they reached the old mill. The women who had remained there came toward them. Some began to run, then stopped because they saw the state of the column. Joy sometimes needs a moment to understand that it may not come alone. Elda handed wounded men over to the prepared group. Irma gave orders no one questioned. Taren had the horses changed as far as possible. The mill, which on the day of departure had been only a securing point, now became the first place where rescue truly became visible. A woman from the return group stepped up to Alina. “Should we send a messenger?” Alina looked west. Ardenthal was not yet visible, but close enough that news could run faster than wagons. “Yes,” she said. “But not only with the message that we are coming.” The woman waited. “He should say that wounded are coming. That help must be ready at the gate. That no one must block the road. And that Seraphina is to be informed first.” “And the king?” Alina looked to the wagon. Arvid had his eyes closed, but he was awake. She knew because his hand moved slightly whenever someone came too close to the bandage. “He should say that the king lives,” she replied. “Nothing more.” The messenger ran. They did not spend the night at the mill. Alina decided to go a little farther while the horses could still manage it. The road there was safer, Ardenthal was closer, and every step west took space away from the enemy. No one objected. Not even Irma, though she looked as if she were saving her objections for later. Only deep in the night did they stop. For the first time in hours, Alina sat on a stone at the edge of the road. Her arm throbbed. The cut was not dangerous, but with every movement it reminded her that even small wounds demand attention. Elda came to her and changed the bandage without asking. “You sleep afterward,” Elda said. “Briefly.” “Longer than briefly.” Alina looked at her. Elda looked back. “Briefly enough to rise quickly,” Alina said. Elda pulled the bandage tight. “That is a bad compromise, but better than your first answer.” Alina almost smiled. She did not quite manage it. When Elda left, Matthis stepped out of the darkness. He remained at a distance that would have been harmless to unfamiliar eyes. Here, at the edge of the makeshift camp, no one looked anyway. Everyone was too tired to search for secrets. “You should remain seated,” he said. “So should you.” “I have sat. In the camp. Long enough.” The sentence came dryly, but not lightly. Alina looked up at him. In the weak light, his face seemed narrower than before. The boy from the stables had not vanished, but he no longer stood there alone. Beside him stood a man who knew hunger, blows, and captivity. “I saw your letter,” she said softly. “The one to Jakob.” “I know.” “I did not keep it.” “I know that too.” A silence formed that was not empty. “The other letter,” she said. Matthis lowered his gaze briefly. “It stays closed.” “Yes.” “Good.” They said no more about it. The sealed letter lay somewhere in Ardenthal, unopened, and for the first time Alina was grateful for every word inside it she did not yet know. Matthis looked toward the wagons. “Your father asked for you.” “He saw me.” “That is not the same.” Alina followed his gaze. “What did he ask?” “Whether you were wounded.” She looked at her bandaged arm. “He saw that.” “He asked anyway.” Alina did not answer. Matthis stepped half a pace closer, then stopped. “You brought him back.” “Not alone.” “I did not say that.” A cough came from near one of the wagons. Both looked toward it. The moment dissolved before it could become dangerous. “Sleep,” Matthis said. “You too.” He nodded and went back to the men. Alina remained seated a moment longer. Then she stood, found a place near the wagons, and slept for a short while with her back against a wheel. The next morning, Ardenthal was visible. At first only as a line. Then as walls. Then as a gate. The column slowed, although everyone wanted to reach it faster. The wounded could not be sped up only because the goal was near. Horses stumble more easily when rushed. People make mistakes when hope shoots into their legs. Mara went ahead and returned before they reached the final stretch. “They are waiting,” she said. Alina nodded. “How many?” “Many.” That had been expected. Still, it made the next step harder. Seraphina stood before the gate. Not atop the wall. Not hidden in the courtyard. She stood outside, where the road entered the town. Beside her were the old captain, several ladies of the court, carriers, water, blankets, healers, and men who had been too old or too young for the war. Behind them stood people from the town and villages. Some held children by the shoulders. Others had their hands clasped before their stomachs. Some were already searching before the column was close enough for faces to be recognized. Alina went on. She felt the column behind her grow quieter. Not because there were fewer sounds, but because everyone withdrew into themselves. Whoever comes home must face the gaze of those who waited. When she reached Seraphina, the queen said nothing at first. Her gaze went past Alina to Arvid’s wagon. Then she went there. Arvid opened his eyes when she came close. He wanted to sit up. Irma, who walked beside the wagon, laid a hand on his shoulder and pressed him back without any courtly ceremony. “You stay,” she said. Seraphina looked briefly at Irma. Then she looked at Arvid. “You live,” she said. “Yes.” The word was small, but it was enough. For everything else, there were too many eyes. Seraphina laid her hand on his. Only briefly. Then she turned and gave orders. Water first. The badly wounded to the northern wing. Freed men to be registered. Families held back until the names were ordered. No one was to run between the wagons in panic. The first people began to weep. Not all from grief. Not all from relief. Some wept because they found a face. Others because they found none. A boy tore himself free from his mother and ran to a man being lifted from a wagon. The man did not recognize him at first. Then he raised his hand slowly, and the boy stopped before him as if suddenly afraid he might break him. A woman searched the rows and repeated a name. No one answered her. Sanna heard it, went to her, and led her aside, not to give her hope, but so she would not stand alone between the wagons. Henrik’s mother was there too. She searched for no one. She stood at the edge and watched as others found or did not find. When Alina passed her, the woman nodded. It was not thanks. It was recognition of work no one had wanted to do. The stretcher with Nela was carried through the gate. Berit walked beside it. As they passed the crowd, a small circle fell silent. Some recognized Nela. Others did not. Maela’s name moved quietly onward, though her body was not with them. That was the cruelest part. A dead woman who did not come home forced everyone to imagine the place where she had remained. Alina helped until the first wagons stood in the courtyard. She ordered, assigned, held people back, let others through. Again and again, her name was spoken. Your Highness. Alina. Princess. Sometimes only a broken sound, when someone did not know whether to ask, thank, or grieve. Only when Arvid was brought into the great courtyard did a different silence fall. He insisted on not being carried in lying down. Irma called that nonsense. Arvid called it necessary. In the end, Matthis and another freed man supported him, and so the king of Ardenthal stepped back into his courtyard. Not upright enough to seem unharmed, but upright enough to be seen. The people lowered their heads. Arvid raised a hand. “No,” he said, and his voice was rough. “Not for me.” The heads lifted hesitantly. He looked to Alina. She stood several steps away, her arm bandaged, the hem of her dress full of dust and dried blood that was not all hers. “For them,” Arvid said. Alina did not freeze. She did not move either. Arvid continued, slowly, because each sentence cost strength. “Ardenthal did not bring me back through an army. Ardenthal brought me back through those who had been left behind.” His voice did not carry to every corner, but the front rows passed the words on. Not loudly. Word by word. “My daughter acted when others had to wait. She led when leadership was needed. And she bore a price that must not be forgotten.” Alina took a step forward. Not from pride, but because she could not evade him. “Father,” she said, softly enough that only those near could hear. Arvid looked at her. For the first time in a long time, there was nothing testing in his gaze. Only exhaustion, pain, and something Alina did not want to name too quickly. Recognition was too small a word for it. “Ardenthal owes you honor,” he said. Now everyone heard it. Alina felt the words work through the crowd. Honor was dangerous. Honor turned actions into stories. Stories made people larger than they wanted to be, and smaller than they were. She looked to Berit, who stood beside Nela’s stretcher. She looked to Rena, whose hands still carried blood beneath the nails. She looked to Sanna, who supported a weeping woman. To Taren, who could barely stand straight anymore. To Mara and Jonna, who remained at the edge because they were used to not standing in the center. To Elda and Irma, who were already working again. To Matthis, who supported Arvid and did not seek her gaze. Then she looked back at her father. “No,” she said. It grew quieter. Alina raised her voice, not strongly, but clearly. “I did what was necessary. Not alone. Not for honor. We went because people were captive. We came back because others carried, led, bound, opened, watched, and endured.” She turned toward the crowd. “Nela fell. Maela fell. Men died in the camp whose names we do not yet all know. Others were already dead before we could reach them. If courage is spoken of today, then not mine alone. If names are named today, then all that we know. And if we do not know names, then we still leave room for them.” No one interrupted her. She drew one breath. “We brought the king back. We brought many back. Not all.” That was the hardest sentence. In the crowd, someone began to weep. This time it was not suppressed. Arvid slowly lowered his head. Not before her alone. Before all of them. Seraphina stood beside him, and her face remained calm, but her eyes did not. The rest of the day lost its clear shape. The wounded were tended. The freed were washed. Families were brought together or separated from hope that gave no answer. The list of those returned was written three times anew. Sanna and Lio worked on it until their hands ached. Rena brought water. Berit disappeared for a while and returned with a piece of metal she had taken from Nela’s tool pouch. She told no one why. In the evening, a simple fire was lit in the courtyard. No celebration. No victory. Still, people came. Some sat on the ground. Others stood. Nela’s stretcher lay before the fire. For Maela, an empty place was left beside it, with a rope Nela had tied and a stone from the road where Maela had fallen. It was not enough. But it was something. Arvid could not stand for long. He sat on a chair that had been brought to him. Seraphina stood at his side. Alina did not stand beside him, but with the women who had gone with her. The priest spoke. Not for long. Perhaps he had understood that long words had no place that evening. Then names were spoken. Henrik. Jakob. Rudolf. Nela. Maela. More men from Ardenthal. Men from allied ranks, as far as their names were known. Unknown prisoners. When “unknown” was spoken, many lowered their eyes. Not from emptiness, but from respect for all that had no family here to hear it. After the naming, Henrik’s mother stepped forward. Alina did not know whether she meant to speak. The woman stopped before the fire, drew a small egg from a cloth, and laid it beside the stone for Maela. “The hen still lays,” she said. No one laughed. No one had to explain what it meant. Continuation was sometimes the only form in which life could answer. Later, when the courtyard emptied, Alina found herself in the West Tower. She did not know when she had gone up. Her legs had known the way. The window was cool beneath her hand. Below her lay the valley of Ardenthal. The fields stood dark, but she knew the grain was there. Higher now than at the beginning. Alive. Not innocent. Not anymore. Behind her, the door opened. Arvid did not enter. He would not have managed the stairs. It was Seraphina. She came beside Alina to the window and was silent for a while. “He will sleep,” she said at last. “Irma ordered it.” “Then he likely will.” Seraphina nodded. “She has more power than the council.” Alina looked briefly at her, and for a small moment there was something like warmth in the room. Not laughter, but the memory that laughter was still possible. Then Seraphina’s gaze grew more serious. “Today you received something you cannot put down again.” “Honor?” “Visibility.” Alina looked out again. Down in the courtyard, the last embers were being distributed. A few women carried water. Someone led a horse into the stable. The old captain spoke with a boy who wanted to hold the spear and almost dropped it. “I only wanted them to come back,” Alina said. “I believe you.” “But that is no longer enough.” “No,” Seraphina said. “It is no longer enough.” For a while they stood beside one another. No one in this world would have said that book two began here. But Alina felt nonetheless that something did not end simply because the king was back. The war of this volume was over. The captivity had ended. The men had returned, as far as they could be brought back. Ardenthal stood. And yet something had shifted that would not find its way back into the old shape. “What will the council do?” Alina asked. “It will give thanks,” Seraphina replied. “Then it will think. And eventually it will ask itself what one does with a princess whom people follow.” Alina briefly closed her eyes. “Not today,” Seraphina said. “No.” “Today you may be tired.” Alina opened her eyes again. “I do not know whether I can.” Seraphina laid a hand on her shoulder. The gesture was calm, not public, not royal. “Then learn it. That too belongs to this.” After a while, Seraphina left. Alina remained. She thought of the first lists in the courtyard. Of Matthis’s name. Of the sealed letter that still lay unopened somewhere in the writing room. Of Arvid’s gaze. Of Nela’s ropes. Of Maela’s last demand. Of Henrik’s mother and the egg by the fire. Below her lay Ardenthal, exhausted and alive. The fields had been green when it all began. Now they were still green. But Alina now knew that green alone saved nothing. It had to be held. With hands, with decisions, with mistakes, with losses, and with people who went even though they were afraid. She remained at the window until the night deepened. Then she turned away from the valley. Tomorrow, letters would be written. Lists amended. Wounds tended. Fields worked. The dead mourned. The living counted. Tomorrow, Ardenthal would go on. And this time, Alina knew she would not only watch.